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Hurricane Utah Territory, October 1870
Every morning, a note greeted Hertha and her husband in the barn. The notes mentioned things they’d said or done the previous day that nobody could have seen. It was starting to frighten Hertha, but Raswell insisted that they would be fine.
“Can we talk to the sheriff?” Her husband sighed, taking her hand as they walked into the house after a long day. Her face burned red. He only did it out of kindness, but she found herself wishing it meant more.
“There isn’t a sheriff here. I’m sorry, Hertha. We’re well and truly on our own.”
While he went into the bedroom to change his sweat-soaked shirt, Hertha started cooking supper. As she did so, she sang the same hymns her mother always did, remembering her childhood.
A smile came to her face as she remembered being a little girl before her mother had become obsessed with her daughter’s marriageable qualities. Hertha had spent hours just watching the way her mother expertly kept house, all the while singing or humming cheerfully.
“Hertha?” She turned to find her husband smiling at her. “I don’t think I’ve heard you sing before. It’s nice.”
Her face burned red. She wasn’t accustomed to compliments, even from Raswell. Unable to reply, she returned to her cooking. Her husband stood beside her, far too close to go unnoticed.
“So, what are we having for supper?”
“Beef stew.” He nodded and peeked at the contents of the large pot on the stove.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Hertha thought for a moment, not wanting to offend him by declining his offer.
“Would you mind cutting an onion for me?” Raswell found an onion, knife, and cutting board and made himself comfortable at the table. It wasn’t long before he was wiping tears from his eyes. Hertha dumped the carrots, potatoes, and flour in with the beef and its grease.
It seemed to be taking her husband nearly twice as long as it should have to cut the onion. She turned to check his progress to find him blinking rapidly to dispel the tears.
“Raswell, is there a problem?” She fought back a smile, hoping to spare his dignity.
“Problem? No, no problem. I’m just cutting an onion and crying like a baby.” He finished and dumped the onion pieces in the pot where they sizzled and popped in the grease. “That wasn’t so terrible.”
“Next time you should try breathing through your mouth. I’m not entirely sure why, but it always helps me.” Hertha tossed a handful of flour in with the meat and vegetables, the poured water over it. She dumped unmeasured amounts of seasonings in until she was happy with the taste, then waited for the stew to thicken.
“How is it that women always seem to know what’s going to taste right, even when it seems like they’re doing it wrong?” She smirked, giving the pot a stir.
“If men would learn how to cook instead of eating a slab of meat and a potato, then you could probably do it, too.”
“Well, then I wouldn’t get to bother you while you’re cooking. My fun would be ruined.”
When the stew had thickened, Hertha filled two bowls and set a loaf of bread on the table. With the easy conversation between them, she almost forgot that they were in danger. That a murderer left notes for them. That they weren’t just like any other newly married couple.
“Could we have more evenings like this one?” Raswell raised an eyebrow in question. “Quiet, without worrying.” He smiled, taking her hand where it sat on the table.
“If I could make all of them like this, I would.”
Neither mentioned the impossibility of worryless days and nights. For now, it was enough to pretend, to sit and eat, ignoring everything else.
Raswell couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen. Sleep was important, he knew that, but what if his father came? What if, because he was asleep, something happened to Hertha?
“God, please, keep us safe. Keep him away.” Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and rolled onto his side. He felt calm. Not necessarily sure that nothing would happen, but sure everything would work for their good.
Stupidly, he thought of his wife. Was she still awake, staring up at the ceiling? He hoped not. Leave it to him to marry the most amazing woman God ever created, only to put her in danger. What had he done, tangling her in his problems?
He sighed, wishing he could regret marrying Hertha. He couldn’t. If he was well and truly honest with himself, he loved her. Oh, he shouldn’t have. He should have found a way to send her back to her parents. Instead, he found he couldn’t bear the idea of losing her. Not because of his father, not because of himself.
It was a problem, being in love. Caring about someone so much that he wanted her gone so she could be safe, but also caring so much that he would rather chop off his own fingers than live without her.
Why couldn’t love be easy, or at the very least, simple? It was unpredictable, irrational. And it was a lot of troubles.
But wasn’t it worth it? Wouldn’t every moment of indecision and trial be worth it if she could love him back? The idea of Hertha thinking of him the way he thought of her made Raswell smile. Could she love him?
